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religious poem

três anos há hoje
quando eu era quebrou em Londres
o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado
eu não queimo nenhum incense
macia weeping
um com você
abaixo do helm do guerreiro
até sua janela da câmara
como águias na elevação ascendente
você está desobstruído
fora da janela um mar de árvores verdes
o doce com fern e levantou-se
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma

 



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